


Underneath the Moonlite

by orphan_account



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Cecil Is Not Described, Gen, Immortal Cecil, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 21:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5601265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immortal Cecil Palmer is faced with his worst fear (no, not mirrors), and makes a decision that will change his life. [Random midnight drabble. Happy(?) New Year!]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath the Moonlite

“I don’t want this!” He yelled into the oblivion. “I don’t want to be like this. I never asked for this!” He knew his face was wet, but he didn’t care; he was used to it. He may not have been susceptible to things like aging, or physical harm, but everyone needs to be susceptible to something, and he was a slave to emotions. “I don’t want to live forever; I want to live with him! I want to live a life, not an existence, and I want him to live a full life! I want to live the rest of my life with him, and I want to die with him!” He cried harder, and crumpled inward, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He felt something else, something thick and warm trailing down his skin. It reached his mouth and the sharp metallic taste made him pull his hands away. They were smeared with blood. He was aware, then, of the blood pouring from his eyes, ears, nose, and even mouth, pulsing with each sob, but he could not stop. He cried and cried until he was sure he would die of blood loss, and he sobbed some more. He lost the ability to sit up, and collapsed to the ground, his body still shuddering with the weak effort of crying. It felt like he was drowning in blood, but there was nothing he could do any more. Nothing he needed to do. He nodded off into the familiar cold, yet again.

When he awoke, he knew it was the last time. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but then, he didn’t know how he knew most things. What he knew is that he was being given one last chance, and he must make the most of it. He raced home, stripping off bloodstained clothes and showering until the water ran clear, hoping to rid his body of all traces of blood. Without mirrors, he couldn’t be sure, but risked it anyway. When he arrived back at the hospital, he steeled himself for what he would see. 

What he saw was not what he expected. The man in the bed, that perfect, beautiful man, was no longer a shade too pale, or a shadow too tired, but looked lively and, well, perfect, once again. When the man looked up, his hair fell away from his face, and he lit up. “Ceece! I-”

Cecil didn’t let him finish. He crossed the room in two impossibly long strides and wrapped his arms around him, holding him tighter than ever before. “Oh Carlos. My beautiful and perfect Carlos…”

“Ceece, I’m okay, but I might not be if you keep holding me this tight.” Immediately, he released his grip, pulling away and holding Carlos at arms length, as if afraid to break him. “No more than twenty minutes ago - or, however much time passes when it feels like twenty minutes - I felt fine! Better than fine! A little hungry, I guess, but great! I asked a doctor, but he wasn’t very helpful, just made some hissing noises, gargled at me, and ran off, but when I asked a nurse, she said I didn’t just feel fine, but I was fine! See, Cecil? A scientist is always fine!”

“A scientist is always fine,” the radio host murmured back. “Oh! You said you were hungry; let’s get some food! We can go to the Moonlite?”

Jumping out of bed with a renewed vigor, Carlos nodded, but the growl of his stomach spoke much louder. 

“Neat! When we get there, I have something to tell you - a surprise!”

And so they drove. They drove down Night Vale’s twisting streets, braving the horrors that roamed the city at night (it’s not like either of them had ever gotten hurt, except the whole underground civilisation thing, but that didn’t count). They drove, in near silence, but not total silence, as each one noticed the other’s little mannerisms, like Carlos’ tendency to hum quietly when riding shotgun (possibly to distract himself from the shotgun he was required to carry), or Cecil frustratedly blowing air out of his nose at each stop sign (because he hadn’t earned his stop sign immunity for that year yet), and each one smiled, knowing the other was theirs, and that they were happy. 

Until they weren’t. When the truck came at them, neither saw it. When it crashed into them, running them up the sidewalk and into the streetlamp, only Carlos really felt it (Cecil, of course, having had most of his pain receptors removed). Carlos had once told Cecil that pain was a good thing; that it told the human body when to stop, or when something was wrong, and Cecil had frowned a little. After all, there was no way to put his pain receptors back, and he worried he had made a mistake. But soon enough, Carlos had learnt the truth. He had seen one of Night Vale’s daily disasters take Cecil from him, seen his limp form swept away by the storm, but Cecil had returned that night, completely unscathed. Left without many options, Cecil confessed to his immortality and imperviousness to, well, just about everything. Carlos stopped worrying as much after that, so he certainly wasn’t very worried now. 

Until he was. The crash had knocked Cecil from behind the wheel to the little gap between the two front seats (Cecil swore that seat belts themselves were venomous creatures, and, as such, never wore them). He was so close that Carlos only had to shift a little before he could pull his boyfriend’s head into his lap, stroking his hair and watching blood seep from a nasty gash on his head. Blood was coming from other parts of Cecil’s body, too; staining his clothes at an alarming rate. Carlos waited, for he had seen this scene before, and Cecil came back from it. He waited, and waited, but it never happened. There was no flash of light, no fading of wounds, no nothing. He fumbled around, pressing his fingers to Cecil’s neck. Nothing. He waited more, and waited an agonizingly long time, but nothing came. There was no flutter of life beneath his fingertips, only the cold and rapid beating of his own heart that he could feel in every extremity. Had his tears not splashed on Cecil’s bloodstained face, Carlos would not have known that he cried. His body had been overtaken by a numbness unlike anything he had felt before. This might as well have been what it felt like to die. Losing such an integral part of your life, your heart, yourself, that’s on par with dying, isn’t it? Losing the part of your existence that you don’t want to exist without? He didn’t bother calling for help. He knew that it had happened, and even in this town, there were some things that just couldn’t be reversed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, but he was unsure of who he was speaking to, or why he was saying the things he said. The only motivation behind his words was that he would not be okay. He would never be okay again.

In his last moments, Cecil felt many things. Pain was not one of them. Instead he felt cold, colder than he had ever felt before. He supposed that, in all the times past, the warmth had never been able to fully leave his core before returning. But now it was seeping away with the blood he could feel running down his skin. It was less than he had cried out, but it was still too much. At one point, it occurred to him, somehow, that Carlos was okay. Carlos was stroking his hair in the manner Cecil often did to Carlos’. And with this occurrence came another. It occurred to him, that everything he had asked for was coming true. Rarely did the mysterious forces of Night Vale ever indulge you in everything you asked for. He supposed, that it was the most painful of things to give him, but perhaps he deserved it, after all these years. He had been careless with his words, but the forces had been true to his every word. Not immortal, check; living with Carlos, check; living a life, not just existing, check; Carlos living a full life, check (he at least hoped); living the rest of his life with Carlos, check; and dying with Carlos, check. He should have been more careful about that last one. He wanted to die side by side, going out together so one of them would never have to be without the other. But, he supposed, he was, in fact, dying, and he was, in fact, with Carlos. He realized, selfishly, that part of his unspoken wish was coming true. He would never again have to face the pain of existing without Carlos. And Carlos, well Carlos would be okay, wouldn’t he? He was never as invested in their relationship as Cecil, and Cecil understood. He didn’t resent Carlos for that; he knew that other things mattered to Carlos, too. For Cecil it was his role as the Voice of Night Vale, and Carlos, and that was it. That was all that truly mattered to him, for when you live as long as he had, you learn to limit your attachments. Cecil wanted to shiver - it was so cold now - but his body wouldn’t let him. His body wouldn’t let him do anything but think. And, in the end, he wanted to smile, but couldn’t - at least not physically. He was smiling though, in those last seconds, because Carlos would be okay.

And that was all that mattered.


End file.
